


I Will Wait Here For You All My LIfe

by Bringbackthegavotte



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: I know nothing about gardens, I really tried with the flowers, M/M, crowley - Freeform, more a character study maybe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2020-07-31 07:08:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20111143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bringbackthegavotte/pseuds/Bringbackthegavotte
Summary: Crowley waits for Aziraphale.





	I Will Wait Here For You All My LIfe

Sometimes Crowley doesn't see Aziraphale for several days. And when he does, he doesn't ask. In part because he desperately does not want to know and in part because in some way he already does. Most of the men Aziraphale goes home with are thin and trendy and very like himself somehow. He'd take it as a compliment if it didn't make him want to douse himself in holy water. Sometimes he sees them dropping Aziraphale off in front of the bookshop.1

At least Aziraphale doesn't actually bring them back to the bookshop and Crowley resolutely does not examine any possible reasons for this. He's just grateful that the safe haven that's just theirs is still theirs.

So he waits until Azriaphale pops back up. He always comes back and Crowley is so, so good at waiting. He sits and waits for the phone to ring and tries not to think or feel or remember. He fails. _You go too fast for me._

Crowley's not even sure if he's properly jealous. He thinks he understands a little too well.2 And besides, he has something that they'll never have. They have 6,000 years of shared history and companionship, which is far more intimate. But there's more that he wants. _Just pick me. Choose me._

His thoughts are interrupted by the phone ringing. He lets the answering machine pick up and hears Aziraphale's voice float in the air. “Dear boy, what do you say to dinner at that nice Italian place? I haven't been in ages.”

Crowley scrambles to pick up. “Sure, angel. What time?”

“How's eight?”

“Eight is perfect. Pick you up at 7:30?”

“That would be lovely.”

“See you then, angel.”

Waiting has its rewards.

***

There are more dinners and lunches, long afternoons at the park, and evenings getting sloshed on both good and bad wine in the back of the bookshop. And then there's raising Warlock side by side. They see each other more often than ever. Crowley's heart races every time Aziraphale compliments her hair or her dress.

Aziraphale brings in her favorite flowers to put in her room. She smiles warmly when he hands them to her every few days. That he would think to bring them to her lights a warmth in her chest, even if she does have to sneak behind him and do some damage control. The primroses come early in the season. He gives her luxurious peonies, geraniums, and on occasion a lily or two. There are roses sometimes, aromatic and romantic. But the cottage pinks are her favorite, although she could give no reason why.

  
On their last day, she takes one of the cottage pinks he gives her and presses it. She doesn't know if they'll even survive the next few weeks to finish preserving the flower, but if they do, she wants to remember that he picked them out especially for her.

***

Crowley drives to the nearest pub. He doesn't cry. The grief is too dear and too deep for tears just yet. It's just a cavernous emptiness with scorched edges. The only question left is if he can drink himself to death before the world implodes.

“Just give me the bottle.” The bartender looks a touch worried about him. Something between a sob and wild, manic laughter escapes him. “Please.” The bartender hands the bottle over.

Crowley finds a table and flings himself down in a chair, gently setting the book in front of him. He's downed a third of the bottle before the tears come. And he's drowning, drowning everywhere. Drowning in tears, in wine, in memories. Aziraphale's mischievous smile when Crowley has finally talked him into something he wanted to be talked into. Worn vests and warm smiles. Stolen pieces of cake and halves of sandwiches. Crepes and those blessed magic tricks and kindness and the way he sometimes used to look at Crowley that gave Crowley hope. Most of all he remembers flowers from the garden.

What's the use of saving the world if the best of it is gone?

Most of the bottle of red has gone down his throat. He's already getting messy drunk, sobbing openly and yelling at no one in particular. None of it matters. He wishes he'd reserved some of the holy water Aziraphale gave him. It would make this part a lot quicker.

He's halfway through his second bottle when impossibly, Aziraphale makes him believe in miracles again.

***

Somehow, they muddle their way out of the apocalypse with a bunch of people he either doesn't or barely knows. And then they're on the bus back to London and Aziraphale intertwines their hands. Crowley looks down and stares in wonder at how well they fit together. He looks up to see Azriraphale smiling at him. It's joyous and sad and worried and free. Crowley smiles back. A new life stretches out in front of them if they survive the next few days.

***

He sprawls back on the bench casually, trying to ignore the frantic pounding of his – Aziraphale's – heart. He's never been less calm in his life and he defied Satan yesterday. _Where is he? Shouldn't he be back by now? Please, please come back._

Even amidst the worry and rising panic, other thoughts swirl around in his mind almost faster than he can process them. _These are the arms that held me last night. I should've asked to kiss him. Why didn't I kiss him? I should've told him I love him. All I ever wanted was you, whatever parts of you you were willing to give. _

Just as his alarm is beginning to reach fever pitch, Crowley spots his own figure approaching out of the corner of his eye. Aziraphale is seated beside him on the bench before he fully turns to look at him. Aziraphale looks unharmed and chipper, even. Relief rushes through him, but his heart aches just a bit at the thought of what he almost lost twice.

“I'm sorry to have kept you waiting, dear boy.”

“It's no problem, angel.”

***

Crowley listens as Aziraphale talks but barely comprehends a word. Crowley's too caught up in the way that Aziraphale _is_, that he's alive and well, the way his eyes get so bright and his hands get so animated when he's excited about something. Crowley just sits and absorbs it, all the noises and pleased faces he makes when eating something particularly scrummy, the way he lets Crowley pick the wine when they come to the Ritz. It's also the way Aziraphale eyes Crowley's piece of cake until he pushes it over with a smile.3

“Oh. Thank you.” Aziraphale smiles back at him so sweetly he worries his heart will give out from the sheer excess of joy.

It's out of his mouth before he knows what it even is. “I kept a flower.”

Aziraphale swallows and wipes his mouth with a napkin. “A flower?”

“You brought me flowers when we looked after Warlock. Kept having to sneak out at night and do some remedial gardening because you were so terrible with the plants. But you brought me flowers. One of the cottage pinks. I forgot to show you last night. Hopefully it's still all right after everything. I pressed it. I really should –”

Aziraphale reaches out and cups his face. Crowley leans into it. He can feel the warm metal of Aziraphale's ring against his skin, Aziraphale's thumb tracing soft caresses across his cheek.

“I really am terribly sorry to have kept you waiting.”

“Angel. Aziraphale.” It comes out hoarse and pleading.

“Will you come home with me, Crowley?”

“Yes, angel. I'll come home.”

1 In much the same way that Crowley and Aziraphale would find themselves in the same place in the far corners of the world, it happens even more often now that they live in the same neighborhood, which led to a particular instance in a crowded pub. As Crowley was making his way toward an oblivious Aziraphale, a dark-haired man beat him there. Crowley did the only thing he could do. He went back to his flat and tried to drink himself into unconsciousness.

2 In the earlier millennia of his life, Crowley had taken his own lovers as well. The encounters became fewer as they left his body satisfied and his soul empty. The morning he wakes up next to a man with beautiful blond curls almost the same shade as Aziraphale's, he goes home, crawls into bed with tears stinging his eyes, and sleeps for nearly a century. That's the last time he takes a human to bed.

3 Crowley only ever orders it to give to Aziraphale anyway. Who needs cake when you're so well fed on Azirphale's smiles?


End file.
